


Host

by Gobetti



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Alternate Universe, Egging, Happy ending (?), Hurt/Comfort, Inflation, Multiple Orgasms, Psychological and physical torture, Rape, Superstuck, noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:56:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gobetti/pseuds/Gobetti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord English believes his son Jake is a failure when it comes to villany, and decides to take matters into his own hands.</p><p>After this night, Jake will become a new villain, no matter if a better or a worse one - even if against his own will.</p><p>(the characters and relationships are all based on the Superstuck AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unwell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kelaruj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelaruj/gifts), [marzichan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marzichan/gifts).



> Please mind the tags and the warnings; they're there for a reason.  
> Thought I would give Kile and Marzi's prompt a try. This is the kinkiest thing I have ever written, but I love mind games. I love writing about the inner turmoil in one's head when going through such extreme situations such as this. That's what I like about noncon stories, and that's where I'm going to have fun when writing this fic. (but I always hope for a happy ending, for an unexpected rescuer, for just a little comfort in the end)  
> I hope you guys like it, and that you won't hate me for torturing poor Jake like this, haha.
> 
> I'm planning on having three chapters: introduction, hurt, and finally comfort.
> 
> Prompt: “Lord English ties Jake to a pool table and stuffs his ass full of a whole set of special “pool balls”, using the cue stick when necessary. He informs Jake that his job is to incubate and then birth a new generation of the Felt, including with LE’s successor. Mainly requesting dubcon/noncon, inflation, hypersensitivity, and multiple orgasms on Jake’s part, but will consider it an extra bonus if it ends with Jake’s friends rescuing him too late, Dirk volunteering to help him remove the eggs.”

Your name is Otto Strider, and you don’t like this.

Not one bit.

When Jake entered his father’s lair, you knew something was different. You knew not because of something his father did or said, but rather of how everything… _ felt _ . His lair felt odd. Like there was something eerie in the air, but you couldn’t tell what it was.

You knew that the fact that mister English – or rather, Doctor Scratch, as he presents himself before you two, in his disgustingly white suit, white gloves, white shoes and fluorescent green tie –  originally requested Jake to not bring you along was the initial fuse of your unfounded worry. But now, as you step into the wide living room and make eye contact with the tall man from behind your orange shades, his calm, contained smile falters for a fraction of a second – you doubt Jake even noticed said hesitation– and now you know for sure that something is going on.

Or rather, that something terrible is about to happen.

“Jake, son.” He says, and before you, Jake gives him a brief nod.

“Father.”

“I believe I asked you to leave your henchmen at your own lair, did I not?”

“And I believe I politely refused your request and informed you that Otto comes with me wherever I go.” Lord English folds both arms behind his back in a suave motion, and Jake clenches both fists by his sides, defensively, and glares at the man across the room. He seems unfazed by it, though; it’s as if Jake didn’t move at all. “I am here now. You needed us to talk face-to-face, then let’s. What is it that you want?”

But he waves his head in disapproval and clicks his tongue a few times. “My dear child, you should know by now that this is not how things work.” He reopens his eyes, and though he seems calm and collected, his glare could burn a hole through your machinery. Somewhere deep inside your circuits you feel the urge to flinch, but you remain still as stone. “You brought him. Very well. But I do not want him listening to our conversation.”

“I will tell him whatever it is that you will eventually tell me, so why bother? It’ll save us both the trouble.”

“No, Jake, it’ll save _you_ the trouble.” He scolds, and his once contained voice is now hard and cold, the subtle smile long gone. “The robot is not listening to our private chat, and I cannot trust him to simply sit in the next room and not eavesdrop on us. Shut him down immediately.”

“ _No_.”

You clearly sense the nervousness in Jake’s voice, despite how he managed to keep his tone even. From this up close, you see his shoulders shaking, and you’re not quite sure if it’s from the effort of having his fists clenched so hard or because he’s afraid of what’s to come.  Probably both.

To anyone else, this would be nonsense; you’ve been to the English household before, and when you did, Jake strictly ordered you to not interfere with anything that might eventually happen, like a more heated strife or any kind of threat to his life, no matter if vague or not. So that’s exactly what you did. Though you felt like you’d explode by keeping everything bottled up inside yourself, all the anger, the frustration of not being able to protect the one you love, the fear of something serious happening while you just sat there and watched as the green, violent monster threw Jake across the room like a ragged doll, you stayed quiet and obeyed your master. You didn’t move to help Jake. And if Jake told you today as well for you to not interfere, then that’s exactly what you would do, no matter how much it hurt you. And Lord English knows that as well. He knows you won’t ever step into their business, if he wishes so. That’s exactly why you suspect that this is not going to be a friendly conversation at all. You suspect he’s planning on doing something to Jake, something else, something _terrible_ , something that you simply wouldn’t allow if only you were present or conscious, even if you were ordered to stay put.

Lord English slowly unfolds his arms, resting them on his sides, much like Jake is doing, and his clenched fists begin to grow, the fabric of his gloves stretching, the seams threatening to rip and tear. You don’t like where this is going.

“Jake.” He says, voice calm and low, and he lifts his head a few inches. “Do as I say, or I will make sure your robot is scrap metal in less than five seconds.”

Jake hesitates, though you can see him tensing.

“Jake.” you whisper, placing a cold hand over his shoulder. He jumps a little, then turns his head around to look at you. He seems mortified. You wonder if it’s because of what he has to do or what will happen after he does it. “It’s okay. Turn me off.”

“But Otto--“

“It’s for the best that you don’t go against your father’s wishes.” You tell him, and he pouts a little. He knows you’re right, that playing stubborn with his father won’t do anybody any good, but still...

There’s a brief pause as he turns to face you. “...I’m sorry.”

 “What are you apologizing for?” you ask as he reaches for the back of your neck.

“For not being able to do anything else.”  He answers, furrowing his brows. The tip of his fingers hovers over the deactivation button on the underside of your head, beneath your hair, and he hesitates.

You give him the briefest of nods, because you know what to do.

“Help is on its way.” You murmur, as lowly as possible, and before he can push his finger in, apply more pressure to the button, you shut yourself down.

You regain consciousness merely three seconds later. You’re inside Jake’s lair, in the body of the small, mechanical bunny he keeps for emergencies much like this one.

Immediately you hop down the table and dash for the door, knowing exactly where you need to go.

And you need to go as fast as your tiny little legs can take you.

You hope that, by the time you and your companion arrive at Doctor Scratch’s house, aka Lord English’s lair, it won’t be too late.

\---

Youre name is Jake English, and you somehow feel like a mouse that is walking directly onto a mousetrap.

Your father is smiling again, arms neatly folded over his back, gloved hands now back to their normal size and balled into loose fists. He walks in front of you and you obediently follow him into his study room, your cape flowing majestically behind you with every step you take. Usually, that nearly insignificant little thing boosts you up with confidence. Your whole attire is custom made so you can feel good about yourself, so it can constantly remind you of who you are and what you are capable of. But now, alone with your father, inside his gigantic house, you feel uneasy. Sure, your dad is weird (to say the least), and normally you wouldn’t expect anything from him out of the customary verbal and physical beating he usually treats you, but the fact that he literally forced you to deactivate your robotic henchmen – your best friend, your lifeline, sometimes even your _sanity_ – and leave him laid down on the couch by the entrance hall, you... actually, you’re not sure what to think about that. It’s not in his nature to do something so... peculiar.

You two enter his study in complete silence, and he urges you to sit down on an armchair before a big, mahogany desk. You do as he says, eyeing the steamy tea pot before you, which is neatly set over a silver tray next to a couple of glasses on the desktop. Before sitting on the chair across from you, your father walks away and reaches for a shelf on the back of the room, fetching an old bottle of whisky that seems to have cost him a small fortune. He sits and pours some for himself.

“Would you care for a drink as well, Jake?” he asks you, offering the bottle, and you shake your head. He hums in response and sets the bottle aside, but still pours some of the hot tea that was sitting inside the kettle onto the remaining glass. He places it in front of you, and you know that it’s an unspoken order for you to drink as well. You frown.

“Please, let’s not beat around the bush, father. What is it that you wish from me?” you ask, bringing the glass to your lips, and... oh, wow... the tea is actually _really_ good. Sweet, yet... sour? Bittersweet? You can’t pinpoint what makes the thing so magnificent, but you try your best not to let the inner flip-flop of delightfulness you’re doing clear in your features. You don’t want to give your father the satisfaction. Instead, you simply sip at the tea again and rest the glass over the table, pretending not to care for it as much as you did. Your father never breaks his gaze from you; he’s eyeing you with careful attention, almost as if analyzing you. You shift in your seat, suddenly nervous. After a few tense seconds, he sighs.

“I wanted to discuss your career with you, Jake. Honestly, I don’t think you’re doing a very good job at villainy on your own.”

You raise a single brow.

“On my own?! What are you talking about, father, I have Vriska and Equius, but most importantly, Otto! I am not-- ” but he raises one gloved hand, and you immediately stop talking.

“Jake, these people aren’t constantly by your side, especially not during the throes of battle. And you have to agree with me that your robotic henchmen is to you more of a friend than a real servant.”

You don’t know what to say to that, because in truth, he’s actually right. So you bring the glass to your lips again, trying to hide your slightly frustrated scowl behind your hands.

“You need _real_ henchmen, Jake, like I have the Felt. I was around your age when I first hosted them. And I think it’s time that you take things seriously and follow the steps of your old man.”

You take one last gulp of the tea in your hands – god, this thing is delicious – and stare at your father, questioningly.

“...Hosted?”

He nods. “Yes, Jake. Hosted. You’ll see what I mean in a bit. Honestly, Jake, are you feeling well? You look rather pale. Paler than usual, that is.”

 “What? Dagnabbit! Of course I am feeling... f-feeling well, father.” you say, a bit taken aback, but all of the sudden your face and neck feels warm and your body becomes a tad sluggish. You shake your head and try to ignore it. “I simply don’t like the insinuation you’ve just made. I mean, I am taking things seriously! As seriously as I ever did. Besides, I don’t believe that I could lead a group of outstandish fellows like the members of the Felt... not like you did, at least. I am not like you, father.”

“I know that, Jake. You are half like me and half like your mother, hence why you can’t transform into a true English like I can.” And all of the sudden his words are getting a bit lethargic to your ears and your head is getting heavy, as well as your eyelids. You reach for the glass on the desk, but before you can move it, your father refills it. “But since you are my flesh and blood, even if only partially, I believe you’ll be able to stand the blow that this change will have in your life. And, of course, your body.”

He looks up at you then, those green green too green eyes staring deep into your own, and you place your free hand in your head, trying to keep it still. The whole room’s spinning by now, and everything’s getting dark and blurry. In an unthought-of motion you try bringing the glass to your lips, but stop halfway. Your hand is too shaky to hold it steady.

“I-I don’t get it, father. If, if you want me to... to, um, le-lead a group of reliable and well-trained men, t-then... then why won’t you just give me t-the... ah, the F-Felt?”

Your father chuckles, and it’s a dark, sinister sound; it sends shivers up your spine. You’re definitely unwell, more than just a bit ill by this point, and there’s just something about the vague, odd things he’s implied that is making you utterly uncomfortable.

“Oh, Jake, Jake, Jake...” he says, waiving his head, and with each passing second his voice becomes more and more just a faint background noise over the sound of your heart pounding in your chest. “You grew up with my men. Therefore, they still see you as the young, naïve boy you once were. No, that is certainly not what you need. You don’t need a family, Jake. You need _servants_.”

“T-that... that is...” you mumble, trying to make something coherent out of the confusing jumble of thoughts going around in your mind, but you’re unable to. Every time you open your mouth it feels like you’re going to puke. “I, uh... y-you were right, I really don’t feel very well, father.” You finally admit, but still his expression doesn’t change.

“Really? Oh, how inconvenient. Please, Jake, drink up. I assure you that you’ll be feeling much better soon enough.”

And then it finally hits you.

You freeze, and everything else seems to stop all at once. It’s as if your heart stopped on its tracks. Your father tilts his head, as if faking confusion.

“What’s wrong, Jake?”

“M... my... drink.” You whisper, staring wide eyed at the transparent liquid inside the glass still cradled in your hand. You squeeze the crystal beneath your palm, confused, scared, infuriated, and you thank the gods that the material is thick enough for it not to break under the pressure you’re applying to it. “You didnmg... _didn’t_ _ ,_ drink... didn’t drink the, the t-tea. You... you d-didn’t... f-father, w-w-what did you do...?”

“Jake, my dear Jake...” he chuckles, and your vision is going all blurry, everything’s getting pitch black. You only notice that your forehead has hit the table after listening to the dull _thud_ of something heavy falling against it, followed by the sound of your glass toppling over, the sweet and warm and incredibly intoxicating liquid dampening your forehead and cheek and hair and oh fuck you realize with horror that _you can’t move_.

Goodness, _what is happening to you???_

“Don’t worry, Jake.” Your father says, placing a hand over your head, and your eyes are closing, slowly, _slowly_...

“Soon, you’ll be a villain as good as I once was.

“Isn’t that what you always wanted?”

But you don’t answer him, because in reality, you don’t actually know the answer to that question.

…do you really?

You finally close your eyes, but you know that if only you were lucid enough, you’d have a clear answer to that question. You’ve had the answer for years now, always did, actually, but it doesn’t matter what you think, because to him, the answer is crystal clear as well.

Though it is not the answer he’d ever expect from you.

“Sleep, Jake.” he whispers.

And so you do.

\---

You are Otto Strider once again, and you have long abandoned the use of your tiny, useless metal legs, instead using the rockets on your back to fly across the city towards the apartment of your human clone.

You don’t care that you are being spotted by several civilians on the shortcuts you’re using to get there, because according to Jake’s vital scans – you two installed a small chip beneath his skin a few months ago so you could always check on him, no matter where one or the other were – he had a minor tachycardia for exactly two minutes and twenty-three seconds before losing consciousness.

So, yeah, you’re kind of in a fucking tight schedule.

When you arrive at his residence, you at least do him the courtesy of sliding the window open before entering – you know he wouldn’t be too keen on helping you if the first thing you did was destroy an important aspect of his humble abode. Dirk’s sitting on the couch next to the window, watching TV or some shit, so he notices you right away. He’s already on his feet and wielding a sword by the time you float in, close the window again and face him.

“You’re Otto, aren’t you.” He says, and it’s more of an affirmation than a question. You nod, landing on the floor and turning off your jetpack. “You have five seconds to give me a good enough reason for me not to cut you into pieces right here and right now.”

“Jake is in trouble.” You blurt out, and after the past initial shock, he scoffs.

“Why the fuck should I care? He’s my nemesis, remember? Whatever he got himself into, he probably deserved it.”

“Tailorbird.” You say, trying to sound serious. “If this was some ordinary danger, you can be sure that I would be able to handle it easily. Alas, this is by far what I would consider ordinary. Hell, what _anyone_ would consider ordinary, even. Rest assured that I am feeling utterly humiliated to be standing here, begging you to do for Jake something that I should be able to do by myself, if that’s any consolation.”

Dirk stops, shifts his weight onto his right foot, and crosses his arms. Apparently you got his curiosity, so you keep going, resorting to your last card.

“You’re a hero. Isn’t your job to save people?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes a deep breath, and asks, “Where is he anyway.”

“Have you ever heard of Dr. Scratch?” you say, trying not to let the relief you’re feeling show into your tone, and Dirk raises a single brow. “Or maybe Lord English?”

He widens his eyes.

“What.”

“Jake’s only family?”

“No, I-- wait, Dr. Scratch is LE?”

“Yes, and as you already know, he and Jake are father and son. But Jake’s being held captive by him, and I fear that I won’t be able to do much on my own. Will you help me out? Please. I fear that something serious might happen to Jake if we don’t act fast.”

He hesitates, grimaces, grunts a little, but finally nods. Your ears perk up, and you ball your tiny little hands in fists.

“Okay, fine. Lead the way, Otto.”


	2. Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks for Marzi for helping me with this :> you rock gurl

Your name is... 

uh, wait, your name...

What is your name again?

Jake? Oh yeah, Jake, your name is Jake. You think. You’re almost sure.

Let’s roll with that for now.

So your name is Jake... _something_ , whatever, and right now, you’re, well...

Where are you anyway?

You try to open your eyes, but your eyelids seem to be made of lead. The ceiling above is made of dark wood, and a dim light somewhere hurts your eyes, so you shut them again. Your whole body feels heavy, sluggish, and you give up on trying to remain awake, trying to fall back into the comfort of unconsciousness. Oblivion is much easier to deal with.

But a loud noise somewhere behind you forces you to wake up just as you’re almost asleep. 

“Up and about, are you, Jake?” a voice says, and the man chuckles. “Or at least as about as you can get.”

You don’t answer, instead closing your eyes and trying to fall back asleep. Something hard pokes your side hardly, once, twice, and you only groan in response.

“Come, now, Jake. Don’t you know it’s rude to sleep while you’re visiting your old man?”

“Hnngn.” You mumble, trying to remember... stuff. Like where were you before you got here, and who is talking to you. According to what he said, he’s your father. Your father... ah, yes, you were in his house, and he wanted to talk to you, and you drank... _tea_...

Oh.

Well. Now that you remember everything, you’re even more certain that you should go back to sleep. But you know you mustn’t, so you force yourself to open your eyes when the hard thing prodding you before comes back with full force, stabbing you roughly in between the ribs.

“Where... where am I?”

“In the Felt room.” He says, pulling away the offending object that was hurting you. “You’ve been here a few times, don’t you remember?”

What a foolish question. Of course you don’t. You could barely remember your last name just a minute ago, much less whatever the fuck it is that you did when you were much younger.

You open your eyes fully, finally taking notice of your father, who is holding a long, white cue stick on his right hand, most probably the very same object he used to jab your side with. He’s removed the jacket of his suit, the light green undershirt and his phosphorescent green suspenders and tie now standing out neatly over his casual attire. He hooks the stick beneath one arm and begins folding back the sleeve of his shirt until it’s at elbow length. Only then he looks up and eyes you again.

“Still lethargic?” he asks, and you simply let the side of your face rest against the soft fabric beneath it. “Doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s better that way.” He concludes, folding up the sleeve of his other arm. Slowly, he unbuttons his gloves and pulls them off, gracefully setting them aside on a table far from you. You see a sort of bucket resting on top of it, and as you’re finally coming to your senses, you watch as he snaps on rubber gloves.

What is he doing.

The first thing that you think of is getting up, so you do. Or, uh... or rather, you _try_ , because you find that you can’t actually sit up. You try again, putting more strength into it, until you realize that your arms, hip and ankles are firmly strapped to the table you’re laid in. It’s a wide pool table, sitting in the middle of the room.

Oh god. Okay. Okay, what is going on.

You close your eyes, take deep breaths, try to count to ten. Yeah, okay, that’s a little better. So now that you’re relatively calmer you force your eyes open again. You notice that at least you’re still able to move your head, good, good, so you decide to look down, and you see--

You...

You widen your eyes.

Your blood has turned cold, your fingers became numb, and the foggyness covering up all coherent thoughts because of the drugs your father gave you fade away, as if being pushed by a gust of wind. But for once in your life you wish you weren’t so terribly aware of your current situation.

You can’t tear your gaze away. You know what you’re seeing. You’re lucid enough to know exactly it is that you’re seeing, but your brain fails to process it correctly.

When it does, thought, the thought alone is like a blow to your chest, wheezing all the air out of you in one second.

You’re _naked_.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough by itself, there’s a wooden pole with two leather straps, one on each end, wrapped around your knees, forcing your legs folded up and apart. A spreader bar.

“F-f-father?” you mumble, hating how little and frightened and just plain pathetic you sound. He doesn’t even turn around but hums lowly, as if urging you to keep talking. So you keep talking. “W-where are my garments?”

“There.” He says, “Over that chair by the bar. Figured you wouldn’t want to ruin your uniform, so I took the liberty of removing it for you.”

“I-I... _ruin_ them?! What, why... f-father, what is the meaning of this?!”

The horror and the sheer panic you are feeling are now evident in your voice, in your expression, in the way your chest goes up and down with the quick rhythm of your ragged breathing. You know that you’re on the verge of hyperventilating, so you try to be strong and control the frantic pace of your heartbeat, but every time you glance down it all starts again. _Fuck_. You feel your face warm up, your nostrils constricting, and by heavens, you will not cry, you will not cry, _you will not--_

“Jake, this is what we needed to discuss. This is why I asked you to come.” You father says, walking towards the pool table. He brings with him the large silver bucket, placing it beside your hip. You watch warily as he reaches for whatever there’s inside, hand neatly protected by a latex glove. His fingers appear from behind the brim of the bucket dripping with a green but slightly transparent goo, and on the palm of his hand there’s a black-and-white cue ball. The number eight, to be more precise. He’s looking at you, but you can’t tear your eyes away from the dripping mess on the palm of your father’s hand. “Do you know what this is?” he asks you, and you look at his face, stern as always, then back at the cue ball, and back once again at him. If he had to ask you that, then the eight ball was most probably not what you thought it was.

“Do I?” you ask, and your father chuckles. You try to slide your hip to the side, but it’s firmly immobilized to the table, and you can barely move it at all. You feel a droplet of sweat running down your forehead. “Father, I don’t understand. Please, let me go, I-I don’t like this, I don’t... feel comfortable being in this position... why am I tied up? Why did you drug me?” you ask, and you cringe after listening to how small and pitiful you sound. You think you know the answer to your question, but no, no, no, it can’t be. Your father would never do such a thing, because... because he’s a rational kind of guy. He doesn’t do anything that doesn’t have a personal gain for him in the end.

You gulp dryly, wishing you could have a cup of water. Your tongue feels terrible in your mouth, and you wonder briefly just for how long you were out.

“Pathetic.” You father mutters to no one in  particular, waving his head and reaching for the bucket with his left hand, fetching some of the goop with two fingers. “Look at you, Jake. Begging. A true villain does not beg, he demands. He does not plea, he commands. And what are you doing? You’re on the verge of tears. Honestly, I thought I had raised you better.”

Your throat closes up and your eyes burn. He’s now standing between your open legs, looking intensively at your intimate parts, and shit how degrading, how _mortifying_ , why, why, this shouldn’t be happening, this shouldn’t, this is not what you came here for, what is he planning on doing to you, what, what, why, why, _you will not cry, you will not cry, youwillnotcry!!!_

A million thoughts flash through your head and you wish you had the guts to shout them all at your father. Instead you’re frozen in place by horror and fear, voice long gone from your grasp. You try pulling at your restrains again, but all you accomplish is digging the leather deeper into your flesh. It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts so fucking much...

And yet, you really wish you meant only the physical hurt.

“Stop crying, Jake.” Your father says, and the words are hard and cold. They reverberate throughout the whole room. You close your eyes, try to tell him that you are not fucking crying, but a warm patch of liquid runs down your face and dampens your hair. You open your mouth, trying to say something, _anything_ , but all that comes out is a weak, desperate squeak, and you keep pulling at the leather straps, keep wriggling your torso, trying to get as far away as possible, and you’re already feeling a nasty burn on your hip and back from rubbing around on the felt, but you don’t care, you don’t care about anything.

“Let me go...” you whine, pitifully, feeling fresh, thick tears streaming down your face. “Please, father, please let me go.”

He sighs.

“What a disappointment.”

And suddenly, something cold is pushing inside of you, and you open your mouth, staring at the ceiling, directly at the lamp on top of the pool table, letting out a strangled cry of pain and discomfort, but mostly, humiliation. You realize feebly that the thing is actually your father’s fingers.

You faintly wonder, behind all the terrible things you’re feeling, what did you ever do to deserve this, and as you go through your childhood memories of you and your father, all you can remember is letting him down. Failing, again and again and again.

You think of Otto lying in the next room, and the promise he made you.

You really wish he wouldn’t come anymore. You don’t want him to see you like this.

“Jake, do you know what I am going to do with you?” you hear your father ask behind your moans and your pleas of _stop_ and _no_ and _get it out._ You don’t answer him, instead concentrating on your breathing since you are definitely hyperventilating now, the short and sharp intakes of breath you take not nearly enough to make your head feel less dizzy, make you feel less terrible, less sick to the stomach. You think about holding your breath and let yourself pass out, but you fear what you father might do if you try to pull something like that on him. He grunts, resting the cue ball on the table.

You can barely register anything else when he grabs your testicles and squeezes.

“Jake, I asked you a question.” He says, squeezing harder, and you scream, digging your nails into your palm until they break the skin, blood coating your hand. He lets go of you after five agonizing seconds and you slump back onto the table. “Do you know what I am doing?”

The first thing that comes to your mind is the obvious one: _rape_. But you know that that’s not it. You try to think of the conversation you had with him just a while ago – fuck, how long has it been since then? – and take a lucky guess.

“You said... you’d show me what it means to be a... a host.” You mumble, wishing that you could wipe the tears and the sweat off of your face. Apparently you got the answer right though, because your father hums approvingly and twists his fingers inside your ass. It sends a wrong kind of sensation up your spine that makes your entire body shiver, and a new set of tears spill from your eyes.

“Exactly, Jake. Now, when I asked you what this was-- ” and he grabs the eight ball again, raising it to show it to you, the green goop still dripping from his gloved hand, “I expected you to realize that this wasn’t a regular cue ball. It’s an egg.”

You frown. His fingers are still wriggling inside of you, and you try to get away from the unwanted touch, but it’s nigh impossible. “...an egg?” you ask dumbly, staring at it with furrowed brows. It makes your father chuckle.

“Yes, Jake, an egg. See, when I was your age, my predecessor did for me the same thing I am about to do for you.” and mentally you correct him, _do **to** you_ , _to_ you because you’d never allow him to touch you like this, _ever_ , “He presented to me the Felt. And now I am going to do the same thing for you, son.”

You don’t answer. You don’t know how to answer that. How to process that information. Luckily for you, he continues.

“This is what it truly means being a host. It’s not about holding within my body the green, terrifying monster that the whole world knows as Lord English; it’s about something that I did in the past. I held all fifteen of these eggs inside of me for a week, until I was ready to expel them, and when I did, I forcefully incubated fifteen young and healthy women with the body of my soon-to-be henchmen.” The two fingers are pulled out of you, and though you sigh with relief, it doesn’t last long; merely a second later they’re back, forcing two more along with the ones who were there previously. You gasp, trying to take a hold of the felt beneath your feet with your toes, but it’s futile. Your father is merciless as he digs his long, lean fingers inside of you, reaching again for that sweet spot that you already hate so much. Somewhere on the back of your head you notice that a sticky, transparent liquid is pooling on your belly, beneath your half-hard penis, but it’s just a faint realization behind the curtain of pain you’re tangled in. You cry out, and it’s half a moan, half a cry. It makes your father grins. 

You don’t like where this is going.

“I was an excellent host, Jake.” He whispers soothingly, his movements now slow and precise, and you just want to get away, run, crawl up into a corner and cry, cry, _cry_... “And I’m sure you will be, too.”

He pulls his fingers out of you, _finally_ , but the small joy of being empty is soon replaced again by fright when you feel the cold, smooth surface of a pool ball pressing against your anus. He pushes it towards you, slowly, and the slick, cool surface almost feels good against your abused flesh, until you remember that he’s probably going to force that thing inside yourself in just a bit. You open your mouth again, concentrating on a fairly interesting nail in the ceiling, trying to ignore the ache in your chest, your cheeks, your head...

“D-did it hurt?” you finally ask, and he stops his ministrations for a second.

“...yes.” he answers, rubbing his left thumb in what was probably meant to be soothing circles over your exposed thigh, but he’s too near to your genitals for your own comfort. You gulp and force yourself to think fast of something else before he can go back to doing what he was doing.

“W-were you in the same situation as I was, father?” you ask, hoping for a positive answer, because you can’t see anyone, _anyone_ doing such an atrocity to themselves on purpose. Your father is silent, and you think you could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing if only your heart wasn’t pounding in your ears and your breathing wasn’t all raspy and rough.

“...yes, as a matter of fact, I was, Jake.” He whispers coolly, taking a hold of your leg with his sticky hand. Ugh. You cringe, but he doesn’t let go. “I had no idea what he was planning on doing to me, and he strapped me down and forced me to take them. It was terrible, yes, maybe, but it taught me many things. Taught me how to be stronger, tougher. It gave me my loyal subjects.” He raises his head, and you look at him from the corner of your eye. “He taught me how to not just give whatever it is people want from you. He taught me how to fight back. How to seek revenge. How to not let anything go unpunished.”

You breathe in, once, twice.

“What happened to your ancestor?”

He smiles wickedly at you, and without a word, thrusts the ball in his hand inside of you, forcing your hole open with the thumb of his free hand. You widen your eyes, looking down at where the heel of his hand is pushing the foreign object inside of you, where your weak and beaten up body is trying to stop it from entering, but he’s forcing it open a little more, and more, and now he’s using both hands to pry you open, pushing the ball with the heel of his palm, harder, harder, and you’re shouting, screaming, your throat going sore, tears streaming freely down your face, back arching off the table, trying to get away, _get off_ , _don’t_ , no, no, nonono _nono **no!!!**_

With one last cry, you feel the smooth surface of the ball going past the ring of flesh, being literally swallowed by your body, and you hold your breath, talking in how full you feel, how stretched you are, how uncomfortable, how awkward, how... _how_...

You look down.

Your father is still smiling, though not at you anymore.

He’s ogling at your half hard erection like a tiger ready to jump at his prey.

“Easy. I killed him.” He says, answering your long forgotten question, pushing the ball further inside your body, and you cry out again, feeling the offending object pressing against your prostate, and fuck, oh fuck, fuckfuck _fuck_ \--

“Fffffuuuuck, get it off, get it off, _get it off_ , haaaaah, sh-shit, father...!”

“Though I’m certain you could never do the same to me, Jake...” he continues, his words barely audible over the sound of your screaming, and he touches the ball again, pushing it in just a little further, making the slick surface rub against the sensitive flesh inside of you, just a little more, and when you think you can’t take it anymore, it’s too much at the same time, too much information, too much sensations, too much pain, too much, too much, stop, please stop, _don’t...!_

“I’d love to see you try.”

Your father uses his free hand to give a light tug at your testicles, and all you see is white.

\---

Your name is Dirk Strider, and right now, you have no idea what you are doing.

The sun is setting, the first fireflies of the night slowly crawling out of their nests to go on and about their business, and you’re crouching on the outside of Lord English’s mansion to save a guy that, _technically_ , you don’t even like.

You must be going out of your mind.

Next to you, the bunny robot flinches and places both paws on top of his head.

“Fuck...!” he mutters, kneeling on the floor and resting his head against the damp grass. You look at him, a bit worried that he might be going into short circuit.

“What’s wrong?”

“ _Jake!_ F-fuck! God, damn...!”

Though the bunny doesn’t have any expression on his smooth, steel face, you can feel the distress on his voice.

It must be because of your fondness for robots or the fact that his voice is identical to yours that you hesitantly reach out for the small bundled up form beside you, but before you can bring yourself to touch him you hear something from inside the house.

It’s an ear-splitting scream, coming from the underground.

You don’t even have to blink to be sure; it’s Jake.

Otto’s body trembles beside you, and he whimpers.

“ _Shit_.” You murmur. “How do we get in again?”

“I don’t know, fuck _, I don’t know...”_ he says, looking around, head still flush to the ground. “But we have to find a way, and fast. Or I swear to god, I’ll break through one of those walls myself.”

You sigh.

You wouldn’t dare to admit it, but you might as well just do the same.

\---

_ Breathe. _

God.

You think you forgot how to breathe, because this just can’t be it.

No matter how many times you breathe in, you still feel dizzy and weak and heavy.

You don’t dare to look down. You can feel the cum drying on your chest, on your arm, over your stomach, and you don’t dare to look down.

Not when your father is standing there.

You hear the sound of wood scraping against wood, and soon enough, a thin, slick object slides into you. You still don’t dare to open your eyes, because you know exactly what is happening, and you fear that if you do look, you might puke or something.

When the pool stick is pulled out of you, you gasp weakly. You don’t feel strong enough to do much more. Not even trying to break free seems logical right now, even though you know that that’s exactly what you should be doing.

“I’m going to put the second one in now, Jake.” Your father says, and _fuck_ how you wish he’d stop talking. You hear the sound of the goop in the bucket moving, and then there’s the familiar pressure on your nether sides, fingers yet again trying to pry you open. It’s easier this time because your muscles are relatively malleable, but your body still tries to fight back.

Soon enough, the second ball slides inside you, and the fact that you’re less tense and nervous kind of makes this whole thing a lot worse, and a lot better all the same. This time, when the cold object touches the oversensitive organ inside of you, your whole body tingles, as if a million invisible needles are prickling at your skin, stimulating you with hundreds of thousands of minuscule electric shocks.

You moan lowly when the familiar pressure and heat begin building up again, and you feel so ashamed, so humiliated, you wish he’d just kill you so this could be over soon. “P-please...” you sob, and it’s hard to tell what you’re asking for. Your father shooshes you, something so very unlike him, and it just makes you hiccup, broken and lost and just tired.

“There, Jake, that’s it, relax...” he coons, slowly massaging the base of your forming erection. You sob again. “There, that’s it, you’re doing great, Jake, just relax...”

Too soon for your liking, his warm and soft hand is gone, and you cry out, hating yourself for wanting that comfortable reassurance back. It helped you take your mind away from all the terrible sensations overwhelming you, and it helped ease up the pressure constantly building up in your groin.

“F-father...” you whisper, voice raspy and thick, and he shooshes you again, reaching for the pool stick and pushing the second ball deep inside you.

When he withdraws the stick you feel it rubbing against your prostate on its way out, and you moan. He chuckles.

“I must say, that tea had the expected effect and then some.” He comments, reaching inside the bucket for a third ball. He quickly pushes it in, and there’s barely any resistance from your body now. You wonder if the throbbing sting you’re feeling down there is a bleeding wound, the only obvious result from all the forceful stretching you’ve been treated to, but you try not to think about it too hard. You might start crying again if you do.

“ _Gaaaaaah...!_ ” you scream out when the hard object touches your prostate, and it sounds a lot more like a cry of pleasure than one of pain. _Shit_. You don’t want to do this. You never did. You want to go home, crawl up into the couch, wrap yourself up in fluffy blankets and eat popcorn until your mouth is parched, then have Otto take you to bed. You want to go rob that new gun store, only to have The Tailorbird show up, and then the two of you will fight and tussle, and even if you do beat him, like sometimes you do, you’ll let him walk in exchange for taking a couple of shiny new Berettas home. You don’t want _this_ , but no matter how hard you try not to think about what is happening, you arch your back and hold your breath again, feeling more cum and prosthetic fluid being pumped out of you with your every heartbeat as the rush of orgasm strikes you again.

You never thought that you could hate and be disgusted so much by something as crude as coming, and yet, here you are.

Your father doesn’t bother to clean you up, picking up the damn cue stick again to push the stupid thing deeper inside you, exactly like he did to the others before it. 

Things just get worse and worse after that.

With every new ball pushed inside you, no matter how softly it touches the oversensitive walls of your body, you feel a new orgasm rushing through you. By the time the ninth ball is deep inside you, you don’t have any semen to gush out anymore, and only that disgustingly transparent liquid pools over your stomach every time you cum. It feels odd to not ejaculate, though you’re certain that you are experiencing orgasm after orgasm after orgasm; you’re pretty sure you came three times in a row with the sixth ball. And yet, you’ve never felt less satisfied in your whole life.

When the eleventh ball slides inside you, your father smiles.

“This brings back so many memories.” He whispers to himself. You can almost hear the clacking of the last pool ball inside you as it joins the others, buried deep inside your colon, and the feeling of your body fluids dripping over your side, cooling on the side of your body, makes you finally open your eyes.

You really shouldn’t have done that.

But you only realize that a little too late.

You should’ve seen this coming, but somehow, you didn’t. How fucking stupid of you. The billiard balls are gathering up deep inside you, piling up, stretching the flexible internal organ in a way that you honestly don’t want to think about too much. In a way that you're certain that isn't anywhere near natural. In a way that it should never be stretched. The throbbing pain you feel is effectively masked by the post orgasm rush that refuses to leave your body, and the pit of your stomach has expanded to a point that makes you look like you have a salient beer belly, but you know that that’s definitely not it.

You can’t help it; before you can control yourself you puke a little inside your mouth, gagging in the process. You turn your head to the side and spit the vile liquid over the felt.

“Now, now, Jake, you’ve been doing so well. We’re almost done, now.”

“ _God..._ ” you whisper, feeling warm tears running down to the tip of your nose. You close your eyes again, resting your cheek over the surface of the table. “Please, father, no more... no more...”

He clicks his tongue and promptly ignores your pleas, reaching for the bottom of the bucket and sliding the twelfth cue ball inside you. This time, you try to force the muscle to remain closed, but it’s too sore and abused for you to control it with precision. He uses more force than necessary to pry your hole open, and you squeak out a wail of pain.

“P-please... _enough_ , father, I can’t-- ”

“Shut up, Jake.” He says, and immediately you shut your mouth closed, your teeth clacking loudly with the force of the motion. Your whole body shakes violently when you feel yet another orgasm rushing through you, draining all the energy you had left, exhausting you to your last drop of sweat. “Stop being so weak. You must honor the name you carry, and begging like a pitiful stray animal is not the way to do it.”

When you feel – and hear, you can definitely hear – the  twelfth  pool ball hitting its twins, you cry out, letting out a gush of air you didn’t even realize you were holding back. The skin over your stomach stretches further, your arms and wrists and ankles feel sore, your hair is damp and messy and disgusting, and all you want is a shower and water and a nice, warm bed...

...maybe you wouldn’t refuse a hug.

Before you hear the thirteenth ball being removed from the bucket, there are steps. It startles you so much that you open your eyes, seeing your dad walking around the pool table and opening the belt on your left wrist. Then he walks over to your other side, opening the belt on your right, and finally he moves to your legs, hip and ankle, throwing the now useless black leather to the floor.

Releasing you.

You know why he did it, though. There is no way you’ll be able to get up and walk away at this point. Not on your own, at least.

“Feeling better?” he asks you, voice sweet and soft. It almost sounds like he cares. You nod, pulling your sore and aching arms down, rubbing your swollen wrists gently. “Despite being a complete disgrace through this whole process, I figured I’d make you a bit more comfortable. You made it this far, so you deserve it.”

You nod again, unsure of what to say. You settle with “thanks, father”, and he seems to appreciate the gesture enough, because he smiles, and it’s an almost truthful gesture.

Almost.

“Shall we get this over with?” he asks, already reaching for the bucket, but before you can say anything, prepare yourself for the oncoming blow, there’s a knock on the door.

Your heart stops.

Your father doesn’t say anything, but you can sense him tensing. He’s not happy.

You wonder if it’s a member of the Felt. You really wish none of them had to ever see you like this.

“Wait here.” You father whispers, and you almost scoff – almost because you can barely breathe, much less _scoff_ –, and as he walks away you manage to maneuver your body so you’re lying on your side, back facing the door.

Your father opens the door rather roughly, making the hinges squeal loudly in complaint.

“ _What._ ” Your father growls, sounding a lot like Lord English rather than Dr. Scratch, and you know his face must look cavernous, already beginning to take the shape of the heartless monster everyone knows – you’ve seen that happening many times before whenever he gets particularly mad, and the picture in your head is not helping you calm down.

“My Lord,” the other man says, and his voice is firm and contained. It’s Itchy. “Dinner is served.”

You can hear your father breathing in, gradually calming down.

“Jake,” he says, sounding all sweet and gentle again. “I’m going to go eat. I’ll bring you something later, okay?”

You shrug weakly, and you can almost feel the smile he’s giving you. He walks towards the bar and throws a green fabric over your back. Your cape. It’s probably getting drenched with your spunk and sweat, and you hate him just a little for ruining your favorite outfit, for degrading it like that.

“You’ll be a wonderful host, Jake.” He whispers, rubbing your covered arm affectionately. “Even better than I ever was, if you try hard enough. I believe in you.”

And with that, they both leave.

The very moment the door closes you wrap your arms around your own chest, snuggling more beneath the fabric, counting the seconds as they pass by. A few clocks tick around you inside the now empty room, and you can hear them clearly now that you’re much quieter, much more relaxed, now that your heart isn’t threatening to jump out of your mouth or that your shouts and moans aren’t hiding the soothing echo of the clocks, embracing you in a steady and soothing calmness. The objects housed inside your colon don’t hurt you anymore, but you suspect that it’s mostly because of the drugs still in your system. You try not to think too much about what might happen when its effect wears out. Or how long it’ll take for your father to return.

It’s hard, though. You shiver, wishing you could just get this over with so you can nap. You’re utterly exhausted. You feel like you could sleep forever.

Barely five minutes after your father has gone the doors opens again. There’s heavier footsteps besides lighter ones, so subtle you can barely hear them. You open your eyes a little, because that’s not your father’s footsteps, and you sure as hell don’t recognize those being from any member of the Felt. Clover has lighter steps, but he walks much faster. And the heavy steps sound almost...

...metallic?

“Get him out of here. Right now.” You hear someone say by the door. You recognize it to be Trace’s voice. “And don’t ever show up in our doorstep again, you scum.”

You open your eyes. What could he be possibly talking about?

But then there’s a familiar, badly painted skull against a silver chassis blocking your view of the desk with your father things.

You take a deep breath.

_ Otto. _

“Jake.” He whispers, leaning towards you, hands hovering over your body. “Jake, what has he done to you?”

“Otto...” you mumble weakly, but you don’t move. You just can’t.

He touches your side lightly, dangerously close to the lump on your belly, and he winces. But you still don’t move.

Eventually he slides both arms beneath you and lifts you up, cradling you against his cold chest. He says something to someone beside you, but you can’t make out what. You’re too busy carefully listening to the sound of the cogs whirring inside his body and the thumping of his artificial heart.

You hum softly, snuggling closer to him.

He rests his head atop yours.

“Rest, Jake. Well’ be home soon.” He tells you, and though you really don’t want to sleep – you want to stay awake, to keep listening to his voice, keep paying attention to the little rattling noises his body makes whenever he moves – you’re so worn out you can’t even think straight.

You fall asleep as soon as your skin feels the cold night air.

You don’t dream.


	3. Comfort

Your name is Dirk Strider, and merely five minutes ago you thought you were going to die.

You and Jake’s robot henchmen, Otto, decided to tell over caution to fuck off, instead deciding to barge into the white mansion through the front door. He shut off the body of the bunny, setting it in automatic pilot and sending it off back to Jake’s lair, which meant that his humanoid body was now in order, and thirty seconds later, he was standing beneath the door arch, holding it open for you. You walked in, wearily.

“You sure this is a good idea?” you asked, and much to your dismay, he waved his head.

“No, but do we have any other choice?” he said, already looking forward. “I sure as hell refuse to just sit and listen to Jake’s cries and not do a damn thing about it. The rest of the house is overly silent; the Felt mustn’t be home.”

And that is exactly how the two of you found yourselves in the very room where all fifteen members of the Felt rested. Coincidentally (or not), it was the very same room which had access to the basement, and so you had to go through it if you wished for your rescue mission to be a success.

You felt all the blood draining out of your face, staring at those mendacious (but mostly numerous) green faces, and your legs became rigid, unwilling to respond to your natural instinct of  _run you motherfucking idiot, run!!!_

Before you, Otto appeared shocked merely for a second; next thing you know he’s straightening his back and glaring at them all. They don’t dare to move their respective spots, but they sure as hell don’t look too happy about having you two in the same room as them.

Otto then strides forward, and your pokerface almost falters for a second when you realize he’s heading towards the basement door. Cans immediately places himself before it, blocking the robot’s path. Still Otto keeps going forward, and behind you, Clover shuts the door from where you came in.

Fuck.

You eye Quarters and his ever present machine gun.

You’ll be damn lucky if you make it out of this mansion alive.

But inside the bright and white room the noises coming from underground are much clearer. You can hear every single gasp and cry of pain Jake enunciates, even if it’s muffled and barely evident. The complete silence the room finds itself in doesn’t help; it’s like they’re being quiet so they can hear your nemesis shouting and crying.

Otto clenches his fists even more when Jake howls yet again.

“Let me through.” He hisses to the man that could damn well smash him to pieces with just a hug. Cans, however, doesn’t move – you’re not exactly surprised – and instead narrows his eyes.

Oddly enough, though, you look around the room and notice that none of the other felt members has yet moved upon your entrance. They’re all eyeing you with spite, yes, but none of them seem to be on the tip of their toes, ready to strike and strife you out of their house. In fact, Doze seems utterly shocked, eyes widened and staring intensively at the floor, and Itchy’s eyes are red and swollen, as if he’s been crying. They all look slightly nervous and upset in their very own way. You keep your stance, though. Just in case.

“You’re late.” Cans states, his deep voice firm and decisive, but there’s an undertone to it that you just can’t...

“I know.” Otto answers, and immediately Cans’ expression softens. He looks utterly devastated. You widen your eyes a bit.

“You  _have_  to save him.” He pleas, clenching his fists even harder, making his biceps expand with the sheer force he’s applying to his hands.

“We need a plan.” Crowbar mutters somewhere beside you, arms crossed and back slouched against a table. Die gets up from his seat in a heartbeat, infuriated.

“Wasn’t that what we were doing all this fucking time?!” he shouts at Crowbar, albeit softly, probably so Lord English won’t listen to them. Crowbar frowns, and Itchy raises from his seat and flashsteps out of the room. Downstairs, Jake shouts again, but it’s a weak sound. Everyone’s brows furrow, as if listening to Jake’s pleas hurt them physically.

“Why didn’t you do anything?” you finally speak, and everyone turns to look at you again, as if they had forgotten for a second that you were there. “I mean, I’m pretty sure that you, you and you” and you point to Cans, Matchsticks and Sawbuck, “could knock Dr. Scratch out in a second, not to mention all of you guys combined. Why are you holding back?”

“It’s a lot more complicated than that, pretty boy.” Quarters says, voice raspy and low. He glares at you, and you feel as if he could crush you with that stare. “If only we could do that, we would have done it a fucking long time ago. And since we don’t own you any explanation, I suggest that you stay quiet. What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be enjoying this? Your nemesis, finally on his fucking knees? Begging for mercy? Weak as he can get?” and he bares his blunt teeth at you, shoulders tensing with anger. “I swear to god, pigeon, if you lay a single finger at him tonight I’ll turn you into swizz cheese.”

You breathe once, twice, thrice.

“I am not that heartless. Jake needs my help, and I’m willing to do anything in my power to help him.” You finally say, and apparently it’s good enough for him, because he scoffs, grunts, and looks away.

Itchy is back merely a second later.

“I’m going to ask him to join us for dinner.” He says, slightly out of breath. “I believe he won’t refuse the request. You two, hide inside the closet. When he’s gone, you go down the stairs and fetch Jake. Got it?”

Otto nods, and when Itchy looks at you, you do the same. He nods, too, though about fifty times in merely two seconds.

“Okay. Okay, okay, okay, everyone  _out_!” Itchy shouts quietly, gesturing for everyone to be up and about. While everybody’s making their way out Crowbar pulls Trace by his arm and whispers something onto his ear. Trace nods and walks to the white wooden closet right next to you.

“Trace, I’ll shut the door behind me and our Lord. That’ll be your cue.” Itchy imforms him, and it takes all your self control to not laugh at the terrible pun. Trace nods and grunts, pushing the two of you towards the closet.

“Alright ladies, I don’t want anything funny happening inside this fucking piece of furniture. Understood?” he grunts, voice squeaky and ragged. The hand over your back hurts as he digs his claws on your shoulder blades and it makes you shiver when his cold as ice skin touches the surface of the thin fabric of your outfit. When the three of you have climbed in he gives Itchy a nod before closing the doors and making everything pitch black.

“Now listen,” he murmurs, “When that fucking door opens I don’t want anyone moving at the fucking all, not even to scratch their nose. Hold your damn breath as well. Sorry about that, tincan.”

“No offense taken.” Otto says. “Though I am a little hurt since you called me tincan.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, tough shit. Now shut up. And stop breathing, you prissy.”

You ignore the slap he gives your shoulder, instead paying attention to the absence of sound in the room. Five seconds later the basement door is open, and a pair of footsteps can be heard from behind the doors of the closet. You obey fishface, mostly because you’re a bit worried that he might bite your finger off if you don’t, and you hold your breath for dear life. Lord English and Itchy walk in silence, and when they’ve crossed the room, the click of the door being closed behind them both is clear as day on your ears.

Before either of you can move, the closet doors are open. For a second your heart stops – but then you look down and see Clover eyeing the three of you with nervousness.

“We don’t have much time!” he says, sprinting off towards the basement door and opening it for you. You walk downstairs, trying to be as silent as possible while Clover guards the perimeter upstairs, and by the time you reach the door downstairs you feel sick to your stomach. You fear what you might see behind this door.

Trace opens the door and steps out of the way so you can walk in. you look around. It’s a beautiful room, floor and ceiling covered with dark wood, a green bar with dozens of bottles on the wall and tons of crystal glasses hanging on the ceiling.

In the middle of the room there’s a majestic pool table. You can’t think of any other word to describe the huge, iconic furniture standing in the middle of the room, as if overpowering it.

On top of it is Jake.

The only reason why you know its Jake is because of his black hair and his green cape. He’s shivering, shoulder rising and falling slowly with the rhythm of his breathing. You were scared of looking at him directly, but you had to go help Jake. So when Otto stepped forward, so did you.

“Get him out of here. Right now.” Trace growls, voice breaking a bit at the last sentence. “And don’t ever show up in our doorstep again, you scum.”

You know that last sentence was directed at you, and normally you’d reply, but your eyes are focused on a stool by the fancy looking bar, where there’s a pile with all of Jake’s clothes, boots laid down neatly on top of the folded white fabric, along with his black belt and green gloves.

A shiver runs down your spine.

“Jake...” you hear Otto whisper, and when you look to the side, you kind of wish you hadn’t. You can see a flash of bare skin, huge and swollen, but it’s so out of place it doesn’t even seems to belong to him. “Jake, what has he done to you?” he asks, and if only he was human you know he’d be crying. You look away, unable to keep watching.

“Otto...” Jake whispers back, and  _fuck_ , his voice is weak, ragged and broken. You can’t handle this. You walk to the stool, grab Jake’s garments, and turns back to Otto, where he’s already fetching Jake and settling him on his arms. The cape is left on the table, and the sight of Jake’s bare back and... and god, his...  _lumpy_  stomach... the mere sight of Jake should not be as repulsing as it is right now.

What has he done to him, indeed.

“Cover him up for me, Dirk.” Otto whispers, and you grab the cape, throwing it on top of his lithe body. You tuck it between his metallic arm and Jake’s cold back, and when you fetch the clothes again and set them beneath your arm, Otto walks to the door and up the stairs.

The look on Trace’s face as you walk by him is literally heartbreaking. You try to will the memory of it away.

Soon enough Clover and Trace has led you two to a secret back door that leads straight to a garage. The place is about the size of your apartment, and there must be over twenty vehicles inside. They lead you to a small, black, topless car.

“Get in already.” Trace scowls, taking the driver’s seat. You sit beside him and Otto half sits, half lays on the double cushions behind you. Clover squeals somewhere beside you.

“Itchy’s car is much faster!” he points out, but Trace waves his head, starting the engine. It hums, a sound barely audible. “My car’s not the fastest, but it’s the quietest. Go back inside, Clover. Come up with a lie. I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

Otto bends his head down, touching foreheads with Jake.

“We’ll be home soon. Try to get some rest.”

And with that, you’re out the door and into the cold night. Jake seems to relax and pass out as soon as you’re out and moving.

The felt member eventually drops you off outside Jake’s lair, and as you’re opening the front door, he yells, “Hey!”, and the two of you turn around.

“Get those things out of him as soon as you get inside, you hear me?” he shouts, and you sense Otto tensing beside you. “If you wait too fucking long they won’t come out until they’re ready to hatch, and you sure as fuck don’t wanna see that.”

“How do you even know all this?” Otto asks, and Trace pauses, frowning.

“Trust me, kid. You’re better off not knowing.”

And with that, he’s gone.

There's a heavy pressure in the air. You and Otto hesitate for a tense second before dashing inside Jake's lair, making your way straight towards Jake's bedroom.

You didn’t ask for any of this. You didn’t. Your resume is based solemnly on rescuing people and stopping bad guys from doing evil deeds, not nursing innocent citizens back to health. You’re not sure if doing this could be considered nursing, but still. This sure as fuck isn’t in your resume.

Otto left Jake lying over his king sized bed. When he touched the soft mattress, though it was hard to make him let go of Otto’s body, he curled up on himself and hummed. A clean blanket was gently laid on top of him, and from where you stand Jake almost looks healthy, if only it wasn’t for the thin layer of sweat still damping his forehead.

“Please, Dirk, you have to help me.” Otto begs again, snapping you out of your thoughts. You grimace. “I’m not sure if I can do this by myself, and we need to start getting whatever is inside out of him as fast as possible.”

“Of course you can do this by yourself, I believe in you!” you assure him hastily, cursing yourself for letting some of the panic you’re feeling evident in your voice. “Fuck, Otto, I... I can’t do this. I’m sure Jake would agree that I shouldn’t take any part of this if only he was awake. He’s going to hate me forever... come on, don’t make me do this.”

“I am not forcing you to do anything,” he tells you, “but I do need someone’s help. And I know that you care, or cared about Jake in some point in your life, otherwise you wouldn’t have come with me. Please. Jake needs us right now.”

A shiver runs down your spine and the hair in your arm stands up.  _God_. Why is your life so fucking shitty.

And then you look at Jake and you know that you’re overreacting. Your life, compared to his, must feel like summer vacations.

You sigh.

“Fuck I can’t believe I’m actually going to do this...” You mutter, and Otto knows it’s your way of saying  _shit let’s get this over with_. He nods once.

“Stay here, I’m going to bring some things that we might need.” He says, and before you can ask what kind of stuff he is talking about he’s disappeared onto the hallway.

You look back to the bed, to where Jake is still sleeping, naked and shivering violently. You consider walking out the door, leaving his lair and then not think about what just happened to him, but you know you can’t do that. Your conscience wouldn’t allow you to make such a shitty move.

Instead, you fetch an empty glass sitting on his nightstand, make your way to his bathroom suite – god damn this is one nice bathroom – and fill it with tap water. When you walk back into the room, Jake’s eyes are half open, and he’s staring at you.

“Hey.” You mumble, walking closer and offering the glass. “Thirsty?”

He doesn’t answer, but he does licks his lips hungrily, turns on his back and scoots towards his pillow, resting his head on the headboard of the bed. He tries to take the glass from your hand, but he’s too shaky to do that. He’ll probably spill the entire thing over his lap if you hand it over.

“Here, let me do it.” you say, touching the edge of the glass to his lips and tilting it slowly. He closes his eyes, sighing through his nose, and drinks ‘till the last drop.

“... _more_.” He whines once his lips are free, and you simply nod, getting up and walking to the bathroom again to refill the glass. When you go back, you keep focusing on his face and his face only – you don’t know what your reaction will be if you look directly at his oversized stomach. You don’t trust your pokerface to be sturdy enough to hold itself together. You place the glass over Jake’s lips again and he drinks greedily, tilting the glass a little more with his own hand when he’s almost done. You set the cup aside and he hangs his head, looking down to his torso. You fight the urge to do the same.

“Need anything else?” you ask him. He furrows his brows.

“Where’s Otto?” he finally replies after a long moment of silence, and you shrug.

“He said he was getting some stuff. He’ll probably be back in a bit.”

He bites his bottom lip.

“Why are you here?”

“I really don’t know either.”

You stare down at the mattress, but you could tell from the corner of your goggles that English was staring at you, confused and pissed off.

Otto barged into the room a little after. You thanked the gods for that, breathing in again.

He placed a water filled basin and a pile of cloths and towels on the bed, and reached forward for GT, pulling him into a tight hug. He didn’t even hesitate and sat up, hugging the robot back.

“Fuck, I am so sorry...” Otto mumbled, hiding his face on the dip of his shoulder, rubbing his back slowly. Jake waved his head.

“No, no, no, don’t-- please just don’t, Otto. Just... please tell me you have some sort of plan. This... this is mightily uncomfortable, to say the least.”

You could see Otto hugging him tighter, and you felt the urge to get up and walk away, feeling like you were witnessing something far too intimate for your liking.

“I admit I don’t have many ideas, given the situation. I... I am not sure with what we’re dealing with here either.”

Jake tenses, hides his face even further into his machinery, and mumbles. Otto’s brows furrow.

“I-I didn’t catch that, Jake. Come again?”

“... _lliard balls_.” You heard the faint noise of his voice against the robot’s body, and his neck was starting to grow redder by the second. Otto’s brows shoot up and he widened his eyes (fuck that was a well-built robot to imitate human expressions like that) turning his head a little towards Jake.

He was at loss of words. So were you. You wonder how your pokerface was doing. Probably not too well.

Otto shook his head a little, arms trembling, and he also hid his face on the curve of Jake’s shoulder and neck. You heard him whisper “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry...” and you knew that was your cue to fucking leave. You got out of the bed, got up, and you looked at the door.

It was so easy, you just had to take a few steps towards it, walk away, they wouldn’t even see you leaving...

And yet...

From behind you, you could hear Jake sobbing quietly.

“Get them out,  _get them out_ , oh please please I am begging you you need to get them out of me...” he whispered desperately, a high pitched tone to his voice. Otto was too shocked to do anything about his pleas. He just stood there and held him, shaking violently.

You turned around and made your way into the toilet, closing the door behind you.

You then proceeded to vomit the meager contents of your stomach into the sink, the grip to the white porcelain so strong you were fairly sure it could break beneath your fingers.

You really can’t do this. You can’t.

You  _have_  to do this.

Fuck.

You bump your head against the mirror, and you realize that going back into that mansion and killing Lord English yourself would be a lot easier.

 

\---

 

Your name is Jake English.

You really wish that your name was anything BUT Jake English right now.

Many, many times in your life your felt terrible for being born under the English household. It was pain, it was hell. It had its bright parts, what with your greenish and weird family, but you still loved them nevertheless.

But right now, laid down on your own bed, having your robot henchmen clean up the mess you made on your own bare skin ( _the drug did what it promised_ , he said. That’s the only reason you’re not beating yourself up for getting off on such a terrible, mortifying thing) with a damp cloth, you feel like the weakest person alive. You feel worse than a child, because a child has the excuse of being a child. You don’t. You’re a grown man giving people trouble. Making them do things that you could very well do on your own.

Even though Otto insisted, you still wish you could clean yourself up. You’re not that beaten up to not be able to move your aching arms properly.

But he sounded so... so terribly guilty and feeble when he begged you to allow him to do this tiny little thing, you just nodded.

He sounded like he was about ready to cry, but couldn’t. Your heart ached at the thought.

So here you are, clutching at the sheets beneath your body as Otto’s hands barely touch the protruded part of your stomach, for which you are extremely glad for. As much as you want to shout you don't; but it fucking hurts. Your body still feels slow and heavy and a little tingly, probably because of the drugs that will still take a while to fade away, but as they do, you start to feel more and more of the unbearable discomfort you’re feeling.

“So? You came up with any ideas?” you ask, looking at Otto sideways as he discards the messy cloth and wipes your damp skin with a clean one. He looks at your body with a look that is mixed with pity and admiration, and you honestly just wish you could punch that look off of his face, because it hurts a lot more than the billiard balls stretching your insides.

“I do have one idea, considering we have to act fast, and therefore couldn’t really afford the time to find a person qualified to perform a quick and safe surgery on you.” He says, still not looking at you. He takes the blanket again and covers your naked torso with it. You appreciate the warmth and what little dignity it gives you. “But I’m afraid you won’t like it.”

“What?” You ask, but you’re fairly sure you know the answer to your foolish question.

Otto looks up at you, and by the look in his mechanical eyes, you know what’s coming for you.

You really don’t want to give it much thought, so you close your eyes and groans.

Dirk walks out of your bathroom not long after that, sitting on the bed and sighing. He’s tense. His pokerface doesn’t fool you; he doesn’t want to be here.

You don’t either. You wonder what this could possibly mean to your nemesis relationship. How will you two talk with each other the next time you two reencounter? How will you fight equally after... after this?

You shake your head, and you see Otto and Dirk nodding at each other. Otto scoots to the bed with you, settling behind you and pulling you closer to him, your back flushed to his cold chest. The two of you are sort of laying down, almost sitting on the bed, knees bended and heels digging onto the sheets. The low temperature of his body feels so nice against your sweaty back, so you don’t even care about anything else for a while. The blanked is tossed aside, and you try your hardest to ignore the fact that you're completrly naked. You feel your face flushing. It's pretty hard.

“Lift your hips, English.” You hear Dirk whispering, so you do, opening your eyes just a little. He places a soft, white towel beneath your butt, and you settle down again. You tremble. He unfolds another towel and settles that one beside himself, and then he kneels right between your legs, closing his eyes and sighing again. Concentrating.

“Okay, so.” He says, softly, and if only the room wasn’t as quiet as death you knew you’d have a hard time listening to him. Otto keeps rubbing soothing circles over both your arms, and it helps to get rid of some of the terrible tension floating in the air. “The balls are pretty deep inside your colon. I’m going to feel my way around and scoot them closer to your rectum, so you can use your muscles to push them out yourself. I’ll help you by holding your legs up when you’re doing so. Any questions?”

You wave your head slowly, chewing on the inside of your cheek. You’re pretty nervous. You don’t want to do this, but you’re fairly sure that Strider doesn’t either. You know he’d much rather be anywhere else in the entire world than here right now, sitting between your legs, staring at your inflated body. You feel terrible for making him do this for you.

“Jake, it’s going to be all right.” Otto whispers onto your ear. “I promise you.”

And before you can say anything back to him Strider is already reaching forward and pushing against your sensitive stomach. You let out a howl of pain, grabbing onto Otto’s both knees as if they were your lifeline. He kneads and massages your flesh with utmost care, as if he’s making his best not to hurt you, but still you squeak and cry out whenever he hurts you, even if just a little.

You close your eyes and try not to think about anything else, but it’s freaking impossible.

You wonder if you’ll make it out of this  _alive_.

Later you’ll scowl yourself over how overly dramatic you were being then, but right now that is a very plausible question going on through your mind as you try to breathe and just  _can’t_ , exactly like when you were in your father’s basement, though not as bad. But you’re so worn out, so drained... you barely have the energy to stay lucid, much less to push anything as big as a pool ball out of your ass.

You shiver.

This is a nightmare. A very real one, too.

You wish you could go to sleep again so you could wake up.

 

 ---

 

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you wish you had your brother now to tell you what you should do.

You rarely even think about the stupid idiot. You’re really not very fond of him if to tell the truth, though you do admire him and feel proud and honored to be his descendant, but right now, as you become more intimate than you ever wished to be with your nemesis, you wish you had some useful piece of advice to get you through this mortifying situation.

You slide your shaky and weak hands slowly to the back of his knees and push his thighs towards his chest, making both his legs hang freely in the air.

“Alright” you say, trying to sound reassuring. You fail miserably. Even you noticed your voice quavering and cracking a bit. “Now  **push**.”

“I-I don’t think I can do it, Dirk!” he stutters and stammers, gripping firmly at Otto’s legs, eyes closed with embarrassment. “I mean, at this point I am fairly sure I’ll--“

“Fuck, English, I don’t give a damn if you feel like you’re about to shit on my lap or anything” you growl, letting the sheer nervousness you’re feeling evident in your voice. “At this point I’ll take whatever it’s coming for me, so just push and don’t think about it too much, will ya?”

“ _Heavens_...” he whines, throwing his body back and going back to all the panting and heavy breathing, aka mild hyperventilation, looking at the ceiling with wide, teary eyes.

“Stop talking, English. Just push.” You grunt, eyes still glued to the red, swollen, bruised flesh of his anus. It still makes you feel uneasy, still makes you feel uncomfortable to be sitting over your own ass, but you know you have to do it in order to keep going with this. You remind yourself that he needs you, Jake needs you, and he breathes again, gulping dryly.

“Just... promise me one thing first, old chap.” He whispers, voice lithe and low, and you tighten your grip to the back of his legs.

“Sure, what is it.”

“Don’t... don’t call me English. At least just for tonight.”

You wave your head, feeling your heart sink to the pit of your stomach.

“You stupid...” you say, thought there is no vice behind your words, because you do understand the deeper meaning behind his request. “What should I call you then?”

“I have no idea.” He answers you, sounding scared and honest and just so... fragile. “Just...  _please_. And I’m sorry.”

You feel like crying a little. Instead you settle with whispering “Push, Jake.  _Now_.”, and you feel the muscles beneath your palm tensing.

And when he pushes and a vile, green-ish goo starts coming out of him, you force yourself to look away. Otto places his cold hand over Jake’s eyes so he doesn’t see your subtle hesitation and touches foreheads with him.

“That’s it Jake, that’s it, keep going, you’re doing great...” he soothes, rubbing Jake’s right arm. Jake stops his ministrations to breathe.

“Push. Again.” You say softly, and when Jake obeys you without a second thought, you really do feel unwell.

Less than ten seconds later, the tip of a red pool ball appears behind the red and swollen flesh. You widen your eyes.

And you honestly thought you could handle this.

You should’ve known better.

Jake stops, and immediately his body makes the thing go back inside of him. You look up at Jake, who is now sweating and crying silently.

“Fuck, don’t do that, it was almost out, keep going, come on.” You encourage him, and after a deep breath, he forces his abdominal muscles again.

The tip of the ball reappears, slicked with that green goo, sliding easily despite its size. You thank heavens for the fact that English doesn’t seem to have any other contents inside of him besides the goo (you faintly wonder how the hell that is even possible, then remember that he was unawake for a while before the beginning of his...  _procedure_  with Dr. Scratch, and an unpleasant shiver runs all over your body. You wonder if anyone can be that cold and rational and just plain cruel) but it’s still a terrible sight to see, because Jake moans, groans, and then starts to breathe again, though still applying pressure, tears rolling freely down his cheeks. His body doesn’t seem to have enough stamina to do this on its own.

When the ball starts to retract again when it’s already halfway out, you reach for it.

Jake gasps, squeaks, and you push your index finger and your thumb inside of him, gently encircling the billiard ball. He moans your name weakly, as if begging you to not do it, but before he can even finish his sentence, you’re pulling your hand away, taking the slicked ball with you. He gasps and immediately relaxes beneath you, and both he and Otto lift their heads a little to look at the offending object, half covered in goo, half covered in crimson red blood.

Jake twitches.

“Oh  _fucking hell_.” He says, slumping back. You nod.

“I’d say.”

The ball is placed on the bed, over the towel splayed beside you. You eye Jake’s belly again, taking a deep breath. You feel your way around again and manage to untangle the bottom ball away from the others. You push it down until you can barely see it anymore.

“Alright Jake, can you feel it?”

He nods, biting his lip.

“Good, now push.”

And so he does. This time, he doesn’t stop. He breathes, holds his breath, waits ten seconds, breathes again, the whole time with his body stiff as a board. He does that about five times until a white and yellow ball appears, and this time you don’t wait for it to be almost out or for it to be completely gone. You’ve seen how stretchable he is and that he’s already hurt. Might as well get this over with as fast as humanly possible.

You reach down, dipping all five fingers inside of him, gripping at the ball’s contour, and you pull. Jake yells, but you try to ignore it as Otto shooshes him and your hand comes out looking as disgusting as ever. You don’t spend any time ogling the ball this time. It’s set aside along with the red one, and now Jake’s whimpering, sobbing, and  _fuck_.

You wish you could be the one to hold him and hug him until he’s calmed down.

(The thought goes by so quickly in your that you pretend it never even existed.)

When you place the third ball in position inside of him, Jake still squirming and crying above you, you do it a lot faster and with a lot more precision. When it’s ready to go, you don’t say anything, instead grabbing at Jake’s legs again, and he takes the hint, because almost immediately after he’s closing his eyes and pushing again. Some more goo comes out of him, but this time it’s mixed up with red, making the color a freakish looking brown.

You faintly wonder where he’s bleeding and in how much pain he must be in. You bet that it’s kind of a lot. It’s torturing just to think about it.

By the time you see his hole stretching, ready to expel the next ball, you don’t even wait to see its color, already dipping your fingers inside the wide hole. Jake gasps, sobs, and five seconds later you’re pulling the ball out. Good. You just saved about fifteen seconds here. Not bad at all.

You set the ball aside and palm Jake’s stomach, though at this point you have to admit that, well, uh... his newly forming erection so damn close to your hand is kind of extremely distracting and pretty much impossible to ignore.

Adding the way you’re sitting between his legs, watching his chest rise and fall with his breathing...

God, you just really hate yourself at this point.

You do it again. Feel around, push the fourth ball down, and Jake forces his abdominal muscles to their limit. When you’re fairly sure it’s nearing his entrance, when you’re almost completely sure it’s at least somewhere near his prostate, his dick twitches and becomes hard as a rock beneath your gaze. Some urine drips from it, as expected from the unbelievable effort he’s making, and you snap out of your haze to grab a clean towel from the pile behind you and place it beneath his member, stopping the liquid from running down his skin and onto the bed. Otto’s eyes are closed as he whispers things onto Jake’s ear, and Jake must know he’s erect and urinating, given how much worse his expression is and how redder his tan kissed skin is now.

“D-Dirk, please, don’t look...  _a-ah_...” he moans, and fuck if that isn’t more arousing than it really should be. You wish you could say something encouraging, like I’m not looking, or just keep pushing and stop talking already, but you’re in shock. You never knew that that’s how it felt like to be in shock. Standing before the felt was nothing like this, because then your mind worked through all the solutions for that possible situation: fighting them all, running away, faking death, anything. But now...

Your mind has gone blank.  _Nothing_. Touching him or looking away aren't available options right now. Nothing is. Not even a single coherent thought comes to you, and you faintly realize that you’ve stopped breathing somewhere along the ride towards screwed up lane. Jake shudders, and when the last drip of urine comes out of him, you see a bead of precum dripping out as well.

“A-aaah, D-Dirk, t-take it off...!” he begs loudly, snapping you out of it. You look up at him, then back at his anus where the pool ball is already peeking out of his body.

“S-Sorry...” you say weakly, almost to yourself, but still Jake waves his head and scrunches up his nose.

“Just,  _nng_ , j-just do it already, you buffoon!”

You blink,  _hard_ , and try to get your shit together. As distracting as it may be, this is not the time to lose your shit. No time is ever the time to lose your shit, but this time is even worse than any other possible time. You doubt you’ll ever have a less favorable time to lose your shit other than this one sometime in the future – and by god, you truly hope there won’t be.

Your skin feels different now, as if every nerve in your body has lit itself up. You now feel with more clarity when Jake’s muscles clench around your fingers, trying to pull your hand and the damned ball back inside of him. You ignore it. You try to ignore it, at least. You swear to all that is unholy that you are doing your best to fucking ignore how tight and loose Jake feels all at the same time, how the ring of flesh closes up after you, slowly returning to its initial aspect.

This shouldn’t be as hot as it is, nor should it remind you of a few pornos you’ve watched so, so long ago. Not when Jake’s flesh looks taunted like that, swollen and bruised and abused.

You cease your staring – even though you were just staring for a second or so – and reach for his stomach again, which you’re glad to notice, is taking a slight smaller form. You massage the flesh, watching as Jake winces and squirms with discomfort before sighing a barely perceptible sigh of relief. The fifth ball is pushed towards his rectum, much like the others, and you look up to Jake, nodding. He nods back, laying his head back down against Otto’s shoulder, and pushing.

And as you think to yourself that finally,  _finally_  he’s softening down, his whole body suddenly jumps beneath your hands.

You widen your eyes and slack your jaw.

Jake opens his eyelids, mouth agape in a not so silent cry. His back arches so badly you feel like he’ll break his spine, and in the blink of an eye his throbbing erection is back in full force. Otto eyes his torso with pity, and you’re pretty sure that that’s exactly how you should too instead of the mixed look of horror and arousal you’re certainly giving him.

“Aaah,  _a-aaaaaah_ , s-shit, Dirk...!” he moans – the hair on the back of your neck stands because  _fucking hell_ , he  _literally_   _moans_  – your name, all the muscles in his body shaking and convulsing, and his dick jumps, spurting out so little cum you’re in doubt if he actually did come. The next pool ball comes before you can even grab it, being expelled from his body with the pulsing of his own orgasm. It falls onto the mattress in between your legs, staining the towel beneath Jake with even more blood and green substance. At least the blood still makes you feel uneasy.

“Fucking hell, Jake...” you whisper, looking up back at him, and you see Otto shooting you a hot burning glare, wiping his master’s forehead with a cloth.

“By god, if I find out that you’re getting off on this, I will smash your skull to the burning asphalt.” He sneers, rubbing his free hand affectionately over Jake’s broad chest. You gulp. You know the robot cares a great deal about Jake, and that he’d go forth with his threat no matter what it took or how upset Jake would be.

Because you feel like it’s fucking sick to feel even mildly aroused by Jake’s suffering... and if that is so, then how must Jake be feeling?

You really can’t put it into words. You never knew you could pity someone so fucking much.

“Jake.” You whisper, reaching for his belly again, and touching his skin only slightly. Softly. You can feel his beating pulse, his warm skin, his throbbing muscles. The bad and the good throbbing. “Jake, man, you still with me?”

Jake still keeps his eyes closed, his thick and black eyebrows drawn close, his overbite poking out from behind his red, chapped lips. He closes his mouth, swallows, licks his lips and stares dumbly at the ceiling.

“Jake.” You say again, and you can almost feel him shuddering. “Jake.” You say again, and only now you realize how... how not weird it is to not call him English. It feels natural, it feels almost  _right_. You may like it to some depth, but you’re too stubborn to admit it. You’re supposed to loathe Jake, not... this. Not feel like  _this_  for him, whatever “this” actually is.

“...yes, old chap?” he whispers, voice dragged and rough. You sigh.

“Can I keep going?”

He chuckles.

“Why, I don’t even know why you stopped in the first place, lad.”

You breathe in. Why did you, anyway. Maybe it was because of how distressed Jake looked. Doesn’t matter, though. You have to be quick with this, and hesitating right now is certainly not the right thing to do.

“Yes. Well. Alright. Just... let me know if you need me to stop.”

“Pal...” he mutters, wincing when you push the sixth ball away from the others, and he breathes again. “I needed you to stop before you even started all this. But did I have any choice in this matter?”

“I suppose not.” You say, feeling your way around his insides. Jake begins pushing the ball away before you can even withdraw your hand from his torso and place them on the back of his legs.

You suppose it must be an effective way to shut your mind down from everything else. The pain, that is. And the burning shame of the unwanted arousal.

You barely even have time to finish that train of thought when his erection rises again. You keep your eyes focused on his anus instead, hands holding his legs steady in the air, waiting, expecting the smooth surface of the object to reappear. You feel him tensing, trembling, you feel him crying out for nothing and no one in particular as he reaches his peak yet again, as he orgasms dryly for what must be the umpteenth time this day. This is torture, for all three of you, and you know it.

You were never a man of time;you were always pretty terrible at keeping track of it. You easily slept in, forgetting all about the time ticking by, and then stayed up until late hours of the evening. But now you can feel the seconds passing by. Now you can feel them lingering on your skin, going with the rhythm of your own heartbeat. You can feel them dragging away as Jake shouts and screams, and you count their duration on the back of your head unconsciously. Your tongue feels glued to the ceiling of your mouth. You can barely breathe.

When the sixth pool ball falls out of Jake – you can’t bring yourself to pull it out when his orgasms are doing that for you – you don’t even move it. You settle Jake’s feet onto the bed again and work the seventh ball until Jake is pushing again, and you reach for his legs once more, holding them up in the air. It comes out as easily as the other before it, carried by the waves of another orgasm. When the eighth ball comes out in the same fashion it clacks against the seventh, rolling to the side. You massage Jake’s stomach, reaching for the ninth.

By the time a blue ball falls out and clacks against the other four before you, you force yourself to really look at Jake, chest drenched in sweat and the towel over his belly pooled with prostatic fluid. You move the towel, hesitate for a second before wiping a drip of the transparent liquid hanging from the tip of Jake’s penis, and settle it aside.

His stomach is much, much smaller. You silently thank whatever god there is for this. You touch him again, feeling a lot more self-conscious about it now that he barely looks inflated.

You palm around, and Jake moans painfully. You ignore him. One... two...

“ _Three_.” He practically sobs, breathing in sharply. “There’s only three left, so I’d appreciate if you’d stop roaming around my belly like that, Strider. It hurts quite a bit.”

You nod, pushing the tenth ball down towards you. Jake whines and bites his lips, forcing his abdominal muscles again.

 _It’s almost over_ , you tell yourself, and in the blink of an eye you see and hear Jake cumming again (hnng, fffffuck,  _fuckfuckfuckfuck, **aaaah!**_ ), and you finally take a few seconds to set the balls piling up before his ass aside, and you tell yourself over and over again, like a constant chanting in your head, it’s almost over, it’s almost over,  _it’s almost over..._

Your mind goes blank when you hold the second to last ball in your filthy hand, and it feels like blissful heaven. It’s almost over, almost,  _almost..._

Jade’s energy is completely drained out. The spasms of his last orgasm are so shaky and weak they don’t manage push the last ball out. So you put three fingers inside of him, reaching for the damned thing, muttering curses under your breath, and pull out a black and white eight ball slicked with green slime out of him.

You smash it against the mattress, arm shaking and breathing accelerated.

It’s over.

_Fuck._

It’s  ** _over_**.

You can’t help but bow your head, close your eyes and cover your face with your clean hand. Jake slumps both legs on the bed, stretching them out. He lets go of Otto’s metallic form and reaches down; he hesitates, his shaky palm hovering over his once again flat stomach, before finally relaxing and resting his hand atop of it. He lets out a shuddering breath, his once shocked and unbelieving expression melting down to a sorrowful one. And then,  _finally_ , Jake breakes down. He starts sobbing, turning around completely, curling and clinging to Otto’s shoulder.

He bawls like he’s alone in the room, like a hurt child. His henchman bends down, hugging Jake tightly, closing his eyes.

You slump down on the bed, noticing that you weren’t sitting anymore, instead leaning forward only slightly on your knees, shoulders and neck tense and fists clenched. You feel dizzy.

Otto looks up at you after what seems like an eternity of just watching the two of them snuggle, after you ignored the thought of wanting to scoot closer towards  them more times than you could possibly count, pushing it away from your mind again and again and again, and he tries to give you a weak smile.

He fails to do so.

 _Thank you_ , he mouths, hiding his face yet again in the scruff of Jake’s hair. You feel a tear roll down your cheek.

Before you can notice what your legs are even doing, you get up, make your way out and close the door behind you.

You finally lay in your bed at the break of dawn, feeling emptier than you ever did in your entire life.

The sun rises, and your small rapping robot senses your distress and decides to close the drapes, drowning your humble room in deep darkness. You really wish he didn’t do that; the darkness makes you remember everything more vividly than ever. But you don’t tell him so. You can’t remember how to speak, how to move, how to smile.

You spend three days in your bed. On the beginning of the fourth day the small bot walks in, followed by your brother. The older man talks to you, but you can’t seem to listen or to understand his words, still trapped in your dazed aftershock stupor. He finally forces you to stand and walks you to the kitchen so you can eat something,  _anything_.

In the end you never did sleep.


End file.
